B rarely remembers his dreams, and that hasn’t changed since his diagnosis. Mine have become more vivid and memorable.
Over recent nights, B has had two months to live and I’ve had a tumour in my navel. The dreaded Button Cancer. It doesn’t get much worse than that.
I may have topped that last night, though, when B’s tumour spread to his face and had to be removed by The Business.
What my dreams lack in medical accuracy, they make up for in gruesomeness.
I’ve seen my fair share of horror films and C4 documentaries over the years, so these must feed my nocturnal imaginings.
I’m too jaded and desensitised to even wake up frightened. I surface briefly, roll my eyes at the preposterousness of it all, then go back to sleep for another round.